Blood At Stones Gate

Summary

Blood At Stones Gate- A novella.

Hard times in 1925 aren't unfamiliar to Donegan. His choices could destroy the natural order in Stones Gate. The time is ripe for a war, a real war within Prohibition. Blood will run through the streets like a river, the cost of a single choice. People will die, the question is who.

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Blood At Stones Gate - Christopher Metcalf

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Author

For Dolores, my rock

I would like to dedicate this book to my mother and father-in-law. Gone, but never forgotten.

K’wan, thank you.

Chapter 1

The Debt

1925

Midnight

Donegan O’Kelly leaned against a light pole and lit a cigarette. He savored the menthol flavor as it rolled into his lungs. Damn that tastes good, he thought. He checked his pack. Only my lucky left, figures. He slid the last cigarette behind his ear and glanced across the street. His cigarette of choice was a Spud, the first company to produce the new menthol flavor that year.

The town of Stones Gate, Michigan was booming from the prohibition of alcohol, and he knew growing up in an Irish ghetto what he was bred to do, bootleg the finest Irish whiskey in the city. The older gangsters nicknamed him Kid O’Kelly in a local Irish gang, the Black Badgers. Everywhere you looked there were crooked cops, prohibition agents, judges and lawyers that all ruled with an iron fist.

Donegan wore his white fedora with a black band slightly tilted over his left eye. He stared intently at the two men across the street engaged in conversation. The thought of a possible upcoming confrontation made him think about the previous week. Shoulda picked a better fuckin’ night. Seamus is prolly fuckin’ drunk, no way around it though. It’s cold, snowy and to top it all off my two-tone shoes are drenched. I never shoulda loaned him the money. Man, I fuckin’ knew better.

He touched the back of his waistband and felt the custom made ivory handle of his Colt 1911. Seamus, one of the men across the street was trying to make a name for himself in the underworld to impress their leader, Patsy O’Malley. Is that a whiskey bottle in his hand? Donegan thought. Ah shit, it is. Better go get my money before he gets really drunk.

He felt the unfiltered cigarette burn down to his fingertips. He tossed it at his feet and crushed it into the snow. Taking a deep breath, he made a quick sign of the cross on his face and stepped off the curb and into the wintery slush. Goddammit, not again.

Seamus, a word please, said Donegan.

Seamus took a pull off of his flask and hiccuped. What you need boy?

Better watch who you call boy, may be a fatal mistake, he replied.

Seamus chuckled and sneered at him. He pulled his coat back, made eye contact with him, then slid his fingers over the handle of his revolver. Tough talk from a kid.

The smell of home brewed whiskey wafted through the air, and Donegan realized when he spoke it was already to late. Where’s my fuckin’ money?

What money?

Don’t play stupid, just give me what I want and I’ll leave youse to your business, said Donegan.

Seamus took another swig and swayed. You want that money?

I’m gonna get it one way or another, Donegan replied looking for anyone else who might be in the shadows.

Fuck you. I ain’t givin’ you shit! said Seamus.

Donegan kept a close eye on Seamus’ partner who had moved into his blind side. Seamus staggered forward a few steps, then stumbled over a crate of bathtub gin and fell to his knees. He cursed, and stood up and felt around in his waistband.

Donegan pointed at him. Don’t you fuckin’ do it.Oh fuck. Donegan pulled his gun from behind his back and brought it around. His eyes bulged wide as both of them fired. Donegan’s shot was lucky. It hit Seamus in the left eye, killing him instantly. Seamus fell and cracked the back windshield. His bullet tore into Donegan's left shoulder and spun him in the opposite direction. He fell to one knee in shock and hunched over. Son of a bitch, oh you dirty motherfucker.

He grimaced in pain and then grabbed the wound as blood poured out between his fingers. Bullets kicked up the snow in front of him as he looked up. The other man advanced, and Donegan unloaded his clip. He hit him twice in the chest and once more in the throat. His attacker landed face first in the snow, blood trickled from under his broken body. Donegan got up, groaned and took a few steps. He grit his teeth and walked over to the man. His victim made a deep gurgling sound as he choked on the blood escaping his lips. Donegan picked up the man's gun and looked at it. Help me... mouthed his attacker.

I gotta finish him now. Hate to watch men suffer. Pausing, he racked a round to give him a coup de gras. Donegan looked into his pleading eyes, and shook his head. Sure am sorry about all this, never meant to kill ya. He turned the man’s head to the side and made the sign of the cross on his forehead with a bloody finger. He glanced up into the night sky and let out a deep sigh. Without thought, he raised his arm and pulled the trigger. The warm blood and brain matter splashed across his shoes from the blast. Goddammit, I just bought these.

Thick pasty blood ran down his arm and onto his pants. Feeling weak, he knew he needed to finish quickly. Seamus was slumped down at the bumper, a look of bewilderment in his eyes. Donegan reached into his coat pockets and felt around. He found his car keys and a bottle of whiskey, but no money. You slimy motherfucker, he thought. Donegan looked at the bottle, then took a swig. He kicked Seamus off the bumper and cursed him for his impudence. Running to the front of the car, he threw open the car door. Goddammit this hurts.

He jumped in the car and the pain in his shoulder took his breath away. Forcing himself upright in the driver’s seat, he inserted the key. The engine sputtered, then roared to life. He quickly slammed the car into first gear and drove away. Donegan blinked and rubbed his eyes. The pain was becoming overwhelming and he was losing consciousness. The model T, also known as the Tin Lizzy inched down the street at a snail's pace and rolled into the parking lot of the Sleeping Pig, a bar his boss O'Malley owned.

Parking the car, he jumped out and raced up to the back door and knocked with his good hand. The jazz music inside almost drowned out his knock. He leaned against the door blood dripping down his fingers. A slit in the door slid open and an old man answered. Donegan, is that you?

Yeah Claude, it's me. Open up will ya? asked Donegan.

The door creaked open and Donegan slipped inside. He leaned against the door, his blood smearing on it as he came through. Stumbling, he fell into Claude's arms and passed out. As Claude caught him he fell backward. He slowly rolled Donegan over and saw his blood drenched shirt. Years before he had been doctor, but after his drinking became excessive he lost his license.

He had gained employment under O'Malley as a doctor and bartender, though he preferred bartending over being a doctor because he could drink for free. Never a killer, he was a man who hung out on the fringes of criminal society. Although, he had killed a man or two during his criminal activities.

He waved a thin man over from the bar. Paulie, bring him to the backroom. Paulie picked him up gently and brought him into the backroom. Claude locked the back door and motioned Mack the bouncer to take over. He ran to the back room and gathered his scalpel, forceps, bandages, and some clean water and then made his way back over to him.

Claude shook his head and looked at the blood and then peeled his overcoat away from the wound. The bullet entered beneath his collarbone, and passed clean through. Hands shaking, he cut away his shirt and undershirt and handed them to Paulie. He took a sip of whiskey to steady his hand and rolled him onto his side. Rubbing the wound with alcohol, he stitched it up. Donegan woke up, and swung his arms at an imaginary foe startling Claude.

Hold him down goddammit, said Claude.

Paulie restrained him and gave him whiskey to help ease the pain. Donegan drank a bit, his vision clouded, then he passed out. Claude finished sewing his wound and wiped the rest of the blood away. Taking one last sip of whiskey, he propped Donegan's head onto a clean pillow.

Claude was a thin man with salt and pepper hair. At sixty, he was in bad shape. He looked like a hobo, his clothes dirty and baggy and a constant five o’clock shadow. The broken capillaries in his nose were ever present from his alcoholism. He entered the main bar room as O'Malley came barging in the back door knocking Mack off his stool. Although short and stocky, O'Malley struck fear into the hearts of most men. He was a renowned killer and torturer who took a perverse pleasure in seeing people suffer. Needless to say, he butchered a lot of men on his way to the top.

In fact, people feared him more than respected him, his code of fear lasts longer than respect was always at the forefront of his mind. He always dressed in jet black suits with silver pinstripes. He was in his mid-sixties with a potbelly, his silver hair combed over trying to preserve what little self esteem he had left. The fedora he wore was a little tight for his head, but no one would dare say anything. His bodyguards, Bobby and Benny stood with their hands on their pistols by the front door.

Who the fuck trailed blood into my bar? He waited, but no one answered. Oh, youse guys don’t hear me?

Claude approached him. Donegan got shot, but we don't know why.

Knowin’ him, he was collectin’ money. He poured himself a double. I always told him not to start shit in this neighborhood, or loan money. Were you able to patch his wound?

I did, got him resting in the backroom, Claude replied.

O’Malley gave a quick nod, then cast his eyes around the bar. Would someone wipe that fuckin’ blood off the door!

They walked to the back and O’Malley saw that Donegan had an opaque appearance as he lay still. He stirred slightly and squinted at the figure in front of him and his heart raced with anxiety.

O’Malley slammed the whiskey. How bad is he? Claude took a sip of whiskey and shrugged.

Is he able to talk?

Lost a lot of blood. If he can talk it won’t be for very long, replied Claude.

O'Malley walked over to his bedside, pulled up a chair and a bottle of whiskey. He poured two glasses as Donegan opened his eyes. Fancy a drink boyo? he asked.

Donegan winced in pain as he reached for it. With a shaking hand, he quickly drank it and laid back down. Thanks.

"Now that we’ve had a proper drink, why don't you tell me what the fuck happened.